The library was at the corner of the house where two sets of windows met, which meant that in bad weather, it accumulated the sound of rain from two directions simultaneously. She hadalways found the percussion of it against old glass in a room full of books soothing.
She stood outside the door for a moment and pressed her hand flat against the wood.
He rode in the rain.
She opened the door.
He was standing at the far window.
She stopped.
He was… She had not fully prepared herself for the sight before her, which she recognized was foolish given that she had been told he was here.
He was soaked through in the way that said the riding had been long and the rain had been serious and he had not stopped for either. His coat was dripping, his hair plastered to his forehead, water trickling down his jaw.
She could only assume he had not been offered a change of clothes. Or he had declined one.
He turned around when she came in. He looked…
She had seen James in many states over the weeks at Ashbourne. She had seen him in his study at midnight. She had seen him in the nursery at three in the morning. She had seen him in the entrance hall with the composure stripped entirely from his face.
She had not seen him like this.
He looked exhausted in a bone-deep way, like a man who had come a long way and was not certain of his reception, but had come anyway.
He looks… deliciously handsome.
“You rode,” she said.
“Yes.”
“In that. You should have used a carriage.” She gestured to the windows, to the weather pressing against them.
“The carriage would have taken longer.” He shrugged. “I did not want to take longer. I have already waited too long.”
She looked at him.
He looked back at her, and she almost tore her gaze away.
“You haven’t read my letters,” he said.
“No.”
“I know. I have been… I have been writing them anyway because the alternative was doing nothing, and I could not do nothing.” He curled his hand over the back of the nearest chair.
He is nervous.
“I found the reverend.”
She stilled. “Thomas Bennett.”
“Yes. I went to Alderton.” He looked at her steadily. “He had everything. Letters from my cousin to Clara, dated correspondence that accounts for her whereabouts during the entire period Mortimer’s letters claim. Financial records. Documentation going back to when they met.” He paused. “The letters Mortimer produced are false. Completely and demonstrably false. Violet is my cousin’s daughter. She has always been his daughter. The petition will be withdrawn within the week.”
Isadora released a long breath. “She is safe.”
“She is.” He nodded. “She has always been safe. I simply needed the proof to make it irrefutable. Mortimer has nothing.”
She looked at the window. “Thank you,” she said. “For going. For…” she trailed off. “Thank you.”
